


a kiss with a fist is better than none

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's mouth is bloody, wet, and Eames bites his lip just to hear Arthur's pained noises muffled into his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a kiss with a fist is better than none

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Florence + the Machine's "Kiss With a Fist".

The job goes pear-shaped, and it's all of their faults, maybe, but mostly Arthur's, Arthur who missed something obvious, Arthur whose job it is to never miss anything.

They all go their separate ways after without a word, and Eames drowns his sorrows at a bar for a few drinks before heading back to the warehouse to grab his things before he hightails it out of town.

Arthur's on a chair, asleep, hooked up and it should be a surprise, but it isn't really. Eames probably should leave him to it, leave him to flagellate himself like he's prone to doing, but he's curious, so he hooks himself up beside Arthur, slides under.

It's a bar that reminds Eames of the one he just left, dim lighting and just enough projections to keep from feeling lonely. Arthur's nursing a drink at the bar, his posture slumped and guilty, and he tenses, hard, when Eames rests his hand on the small of his back.

"Get out," he says, when he turns and sees Eames, and Eames grins at him and does no such thing.

He's half waiting for Arthur to shoot him, to shoot himself, anything, but that doesn't happen. Instead Arthur stands, and Eames is entirely unprepared for the right hook that Arthur delivers, crushing into his cheek.

Eames stares at him for a moment, pain blooming up, before he looks at him harder, realises what Arthur wants and what he wants are, for once, entirely the same. He punches him back, a gut punch, then slams his fist into Arthur's face, looks at the burst of red on Arthur's split lip.

And then he doesn't care what Arthur wants anymore, doesn't care, just wants to get something he wants for once, and he kisses Arthur because he can. Arthur's mouth is bloody, wet, and Eames bites his lip just to hear Arthur's pained noises muffled into his mouth.

Arthur mutters something very likely rude into his mouth, but it disappears, without sound, and shapes itself into a moan as Eames wrestles with Arthur's belt, his button, shoves a hand inside Arthur's trousers and wraps it around his cock.

Arthur pulls himself away from Eames' mouth, bites down hard on his throat, and then his mouth is open, wet and panting, against his throat as Eames twists his wrist, the grip probably painful, probably ugly and hard and too much, but just right.

Arthur scrabbles at his trousers, hands clumsy for once, and ends up ripping the button out in his haste, but then his hand is around him, hot and dry, just dry enough for Eames to wince, for Eames to know he'd feel it in the morning if this was real.

It isn't though, none of it's real, and Arthur makes noises that Eames wouldn't have expected from him, long and needy and perfect, he feels perfect in Eames' hand, and this probably isn't ever going to happen, this is probably something Arthur is going to want to forget, going to pretend to forget, so Eames just twists his free hand in Arthur's hair, rough, and kisses him quiet, then kisses him loud all over again.

Arthur comes in his hand and then promptly disappears. "Fuck," Eames grits out, so close, and he knew orgasm was a kick, but it's easy to forget. The dream starts dissolving around him, the dreamer gone, and Eames wakes up, hard in his trousers, with Arthur looking at him.

"Did you get what you wanted?" Arthur asks, unhooking the device. There's a bright spot of blood on the back of his hand, the only thing that mars him. Eames knows he's probably come in his very likely fancy underwear, so that makes it easier.

"Did you?" Eames asks. All he can think of is Arthur's mouth on his throat, open in a needy, desperate shape, the way Arthur's projections had stood and watched, and never stepped in for him, not once.

Arthur's body goes tense, tight, and he walks away without a word. Eames can only smirk at his back as he disappears, and then slide a hand down past his belt.


End file.
